Love letter # 633

In a way, this is useless. Only words. A performative version of reality. Post.

The true ground is more textured. Soil more complex. Process convoluted, ongoing. There is no pinning down, no containing with cute phraseology. My heart is not a meme. How I feel about you – us – is not a storybook. At least, not one they could make into a film.

We are neither example, nor symptom. Not problem or solution. We cannot say who we are. We are yet to devise a neat narrative or collapse our love to the penury of meaning.

Before you ask…I do not know why I am writing this; other than out of nebulous hope. Or desperation. Is this me begging?

Maybe I should tumble everything together. Like thank you and sorry and I love you and that hurt. You lead me to flight, tie me down. You open my mind, close me off. I want you, yet turn away. Nothing is simple. Nothing static. In fifteen minutes I will not feel this.

We are over romantic. We are the other cliché now; the pair bonded individuals who, without expressly intending it, turned recognition and connection into assumption and contradiction. Some might think it sad, others inevitable. Perhaps it just is.

Later, in the quiet, when the wafer of language has been thoroughly crunched, we will have shards. Crumbs. Powder. I wonder what we will make of such leftovers.